George Waters column for Feb. 3, 2013:
Are you that rare man who doesn't know what a "play-action fake" is? Would you rather watch a great production of "Godot" than the Super Bowl? Have you ever been called "effeminate" by a total stranger? Me too! Let's talk sports.
Q: What is the Super Bowl?
A: I don't know about "the," but I have "a" super, honeydew-colored Fiestaware bowl from my grandma that I think would qualify.
Q: Seriously, what IS a play-action fake?
A: I looked it up. Trust me, much like "all-you-can-eat-falafal," it is not as exciting as it sounds.
Q: Do you watch the Super Bowl?
A: I have watched many Super Bowls, if by "watch" you mean "have the game on, muted, except for the commercials."
Q: Which one of these is a song from Disney's "The Lion King," NOT a player on this year's Super Bowl teams:
a) Haloti Ngata
b) Kelechi Osemele
c) Hakuna Matata
A: c) Hakuna Matata. Duh! I saw that movie, like, five times. Plus, I wrote the question.
Q: Which is a more urgent crisis—that L.A. does not have a pro football team or that Seth Mac-freaking-Farlane is hosting the Oscars?
A: I think you know.
Q: Were you ever a football fan?
A: Yes, when I was 11 or 12. I loved the idea that you could pit Vikings against dolphins. Then I found out those were just mascots.
Q: If Texas can have a team called the Houston Texans, shouldn't L.A. have the Los Angeles Californians?
A: Yes! And the mascot could be a surfing plastic surgeon!
Q: Do you believe that teams should be spotted a few extra points at the top of the game if their team names use alliteration?
A: Yes, I have been thinking about this for years, during intermissions for plays. The Buffalo Bills, Jacksonville Jaguars, Seattle Seahawks and the Tennessee Titans should all start their games with three bonus points and a loudspeaker announcement that words matter.
Q: Is this the first time two brothers have coached opposing teams in the Super Bowl?
A: Yes, it is historic. Loser has to host Thanksgiving.
Q: Why do you think most men like football so much?
A: I think men see players as surrogates for themselves. Players impose their wills on other men in a way society does not allow ordinary men to.
Q: You just don't like getting hit, do you?
A: Oh heck no.
. . .
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Kids' last week of school a dreamy waste of time
George Waters column for May 26, 2013:
With only seven days of school left before summer, my kids' brains have entered a mental state I like to call "already-gonus adios-is." They are already, mentally, wearing flip-flops. Do you remember what a waste of time the last week of school was? Sure, you had finals, but one of the days, at least, your finals were P.E. and choir.
I do not know if I could name another time in one's life when one is so physically present yet so mentally gone. Maybe while watching Bruce Willis movies. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood is riding my bike home the day I finished sixth grade, the sun on my face and Alice Cooper's "School's out for summer" blasting in my mind.
Summer vacation for a kid glows like the first rays of sunrise, lighting his imagination long before the actual thing arrives. It is not so much the things I imagined I would do that summer before seventh grade which made it so sweet, but the things I wouldn't do. I would not sit still. I would not pay attention. I would not stop playing at the ring of a bell.
I am, actuarially speaking, in the autumn of my years now. But my children are not only in the summer of their lives, they are on the cusp of summer itself, a double-whammy so pure they wake up these mornings like drowsy puppies, pre-drunk on a vacation which has not yet begun.
Like the hot gust of wind which blasts out of a subway tunnel before the train is even in sight, summer's impending freedom is something kids sense and lean against, savoring its salvation even as they sit at desks, pretending to be present. Seven days until I don't have to wear socks, they silently smile. Six. Five.
My kids are no longer little, so they have summer tasks to complete; mandatory books to read, vocabulary words to be inked on flash cards. (Do you remember the moment you learned what the word "ephemeral" meant? Neither do I, but a kid's summer is a pretty good definition.) I do remember cannonballs into the pool, the grit of beach sand between my toes, nothing to do and all day to not do it in.
Seven days. Well, as the Eagles put it: "Yes, I'm already gone / And I'm feelin' strong / I will sing this vict'ry song / 'cause I'm already gone."
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
With only seven days of school left before summer, my kids' brains have entered a mental state I like to call "already-gonus adios-is." They are already, mentally, wearing flip-flops. Do you remember what a waste of time the last week of school was? Sure, you had finals, but one of the days, at least, your finals were P.E. and choir.
I do not know if I could name another time in one's life when one is so physically present yet so mentally gone. Maybe while watching Bruce Willis movies. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood is riding my bike home the day I finished sixth grade, the sun on my face and Alice Cooper's "School's out for summer" blasting in my mind.
Summer vacation for a kid glows like the first rays of sunrise, lighting his imagination long before the actual thing arrives. It is not so much the things I imagined I would do that summer before seventh grade which made it so sweet, but the things I wouldn't do. I would not sit still. I would not pay attention. I would not stop playing at the ring of a bell.
I am, actuarially speaking, in the autumn of my years now. But my children are not only in the summer of their lives, they are on the cusp of summer itself, a double-whammy so pure they wake up these mornings like drowsy puppies, pre-drunk on a vacation which has not yet begun.
Like the hot gust of wind which blasts out of a subway tunnel before the train is even in sight, summer's impending freedom is something kids sense and lean against, savoring its salvation even as they sit at desks, pretending to be present. Seven days until I don't have to wear socks, they silently smile. Six. Five.
My kids are no longer little, so they have summer tasks to complete; mandatory books to read, vocabulary words to be inked on flash cards. (Do you remember the moment you learned what the word "ephemeral" meant? Neither do I, but a kid's summer is a pretty good definition.) I do remember cannonballs into the pool, the grit of beach sand between my toes, nothing to do and all day to not do it in.
Seven days. Well, as the Eagles put it: "Yes, I'm already gone / And I'm feelin' strong / I will sing this vict'ry song / 'cause I'm already gone."
. . .
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
Old decrepit house II: Revenge of the Hinge
George Waters column for June 2, 2013:
My old house evidently did not take kindly to being called decrepit here a couple of weeks ago, because this week the screen door busted off its hinges. Luckily I am very handy with repairs. Hold on, my wife is laughing at something funny in the paper. What? Apparently it is so funny she can't catch her breath to explain.
Anyway, I got a new screen door at a place I will call, to avoid the appearance of advertising, Foam Depot. The new door came with a "hinge channel expander," which makes the door size adjustable, but first you have to cut it to size with a hacksaw. In case you have never cut metal with a hacksaw, here is something you can try in order to simulate the amount of noise involved:
Place a metal bucket on your head. Ask a friend to dump a thousand ball bearings on it. From your roof. (Trust me, your friend will be into this.)
Once the expander is attached, you need to affix the handle mechanisms. The instructions say this only requires a few screws, but the instructions assume that you already have a garage full of metal-drilling drill bits, and the instructions are a little presumptuous, I think.
So go to Foam Depot and bring home new drill bits you will never use again. You will never even be able to find them again. Drill bits are the socks of the tool world.
After drilling holes for the handles, attach them using 5/8" screws, or a random piece of wire after you realize you mistakenly used the 5/8" screws to attach the channel expander to the door. Assure yourself that wire is "artsy," and that "aesthetics" are overrated.
Finally, attach the cylindrical closer tube to the top of the screen door. This requires drilling two 1/8" holes with the new drill bit you can't find. A hammer and a pin punch work just as well, but who has a pin punch? Try a nail. It will cause quite a dimple in the door's metal, but you don't live in Bel Air, do you?
The point here, after all, is keeping out bugs, so the five inch gap at the top of the door is going to be the real problem. You could start over from scratch, of course, but how big an issue are bugs anyway? It's that creaking sound from the attic you should be concerned about. It's an old house, and it has a bit of a vindictive streak.
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
My old house evidently did not take kindly to being called decrepit here a couple of weeks ago, because this week the screen door busted off its hinges. Luckily I am very handy with repairs. Hold on, my wife is laughing at something funny in the paper. What? Apparently it is so funny she can't catch her breath to explain.
Anyway, I got a new screen door at a place I will call, to avoid the appearance of advertising, Foam Depot. The new door came with a "hinge channel expander," which makes the door size adjustable, but first you have to cut it to size with a hacksaw. In case you have never cut metal with a hacksaw, here is something you can try in order to simulate the amount of noise involved:
Place a metal bucket on your head. Ask a friend to dump a thousand ball bearings on it. From your roof. (Trust me, your friend will be into this.)
Once the expander is attached, you need to affix the handle mechanisms. The instructions say this only requires a few screws, but the instructions assume that you already have a garage full of metal-drilling drill bits, and the instructions are a little presumptuous, I think.
So go to Foam Depot and bring home new drill bits you will never use again. You will never even be able to find them again. Drill bits are the socks of the tool world.
After drilling holes for the handles, attach them using 5/8" screws, or a random piece of wire after you realize you mistakenly used the 5/8" screws to attach the channel expander to the door. Assure yourself that wire is "artsy," and that "aesthetics" are overrated.
Finally, attach the cylindrical closer tube to the top of the screen door. This requires drilling two 1/8" holes with the new drill bit you can't find. A hammer and a pin punch work just as well, but who has a pin punch? Try a nail. It will cause quite a dimple in the door's metal, but you don't live in Bel Air, do you?
The point here, after all, is keeping out bugs, so the five inch gap at the top of the door is going to be the real problem. You could start over from scratch, of course, but how big an issue are bugs anyway? It's that creaking sound from the attic you should be concerned about. It's an old house, and it has a bit of a vindictive streak.
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
Tribute rock band names: clever or clueless?
George Waters column for Sunday, June 16, 2013:
My wife casually mentioned the other day that she has a cousin in a tribute band, and my imagination caught fire. I have always fantasized about forming a tribute band of AD/DC and calling it Fuse Box. But it turns out there already is one! Well, you know what they say about great ideas: "That wasn't one."
The key to a tribute band is the name, whether it is meant sincerely or ironically. One tribute to 80's hair bands is named Mullett. An ABBA tribute is called Bjorn Again. The Beatles have probably spawned more tribute acts than anyone, many referencing Beatles songs in their names. Thus we have The Nowhere Men and The Eggmen. The best Beatles one, I think, though, is The Fab Faux.
A lot of bands simply add something before or after the actual artists' name and call it a day, resulting in bands like Eaglemania, Simply Elton, Almost Manilow, Jimi Lives and Michael Buble—The Show.
But I respect creativity most, like a Tom Petty tribute named Petty Thief. Now there is a guy who you know sings with his tongue in his cheek. There is a Steely Dan tribute called Stanley Dee. A Motorhead knockoff named Motorheadache. Van Halen? No, Van Hellion! Motley Crue? Cruella!
There is an Ozzy tribute band down under calling itself Aussie Ausborn. And a clever tribute to 80's hair metal calls itself Poise 'N' Roses. I also like another ABBA tribute called Mamma Mania.
But I wonder why a Pink Floyd fan thought a good tribute name would be Keep Floyding. Especially when fans could go see Pink Fraud instead. I wonder about the guys who pay homage to Foo Fighters as Food Fighterz. A z plural is never a good sign.
Some of the best names come from female tributes; Blonde Jovi, AC/Dshe, Aerochix, the Iron Maidens, Chick Jagger.
But there is a whole lot of laziness out there too. Bon Jovie? Really? One extra letter is all you had the energy for? And, seriously, who would go see Oasiss if their rival, No Way Sis, were in town?
I do not quite understand the Michael Jackson tribute called Delfim Miranda, but perhaps something is lost in translation from the Portuguese.
I wish there were a tribute band of Fleetwood Mac called Fleetwood PC. But until there is, I guess I can be content with the very real bands Led Zepagain and the Clone Temple Pilots.
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
My wife casually mentioned the other day that she has a cousin in a tribute band, and my imagination caught fire. I have always fantasized about forming a tribute band of AD/DC and calling it Fuse Box. But it turns out there already is one! Well, you know what they say about great ideas: "That wasn't one."
The key to a tribute band is the name, whether it is meant sincerely or ironically. One tribute to 80's hair bands is named Mullett. An ABBA tribute is called Bjorn Again. The Beatles have probably spawned more tribute acts than anyone, many referencing Beatles songs in their names. Thus we have The Nowhere Men and The Eggmen. The best Beatles one, I think, though, is The Fab Faux.
A lot of bands simply add something before or after the actual artists' name and call it a day, resulting in bands like Eaglemania, Simply Elton, Almost Manilow, Jimi Lives and Michael Buble—The Show.
But I respect creativity most, like a Tom Petty tribute named Petty Thief. Now there is a guy who you know sings with his tongue in his cheek. There is a Steely Dan tribute called Stanley Dee. A Motorhead knockoff named Motorheadache. Van Halen? No, Van Hellion! Motley Crue? Cruella!
There is an Ozzy tribute band down under calling itself Aussie Ausborn. And a clever tribute to 80's hair metal calls itself Poise 'N' Roses. I also like another ABBA tribute called Mamma Mania.
But I wonder why a Pink Floyd fan thought a good tribute name would be Keep Floyding. Especially when fans could go see Pink Fraud instead. I wonder about the guys who pay homage to Foo Fighters as Food Fighterz. A z plural is never a good sign.
Some of the best names come from female tributes; Blonde Jovi, AC/Dshe, Aerochix, the Iron Maidens, Chick Jagger.
But there is a whole lot of laziness out there too. Bon Jovie? Really? One extra letter is all you had the energy for? And, seriously, who would go see Oasiss if their rival, No Way Sis, were in town?
I do not quite understand the Michael Jackson tribute called Delfim Miranda, but perhaps something is lost in translation from the Portuguese.
I wish there were a tribute band of Fleetwood Mac called Fleetwood PC. But until there is, I guess I can be content with the very real bands Led Zepagain and the Clone Temple Pilots.
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
Man helps wife shoe-shop; survives to tell the tale
George Waters column for June 9, 2013:
For a woman, choosing a purse is like choosing a husband. Before deciding, she has to check each prospect's shape, flexibility, style and depth of pockets. Early on in our relationship I made the mistake of going purse-shopping with my now-wife. I could be wrong, but my memory is that it took four hours. It took so long, in fact, "a purse" became a shorthand term between us for any act which requires time-consuming and monotonous effort, i.e.:
"Want to come look at sofas with me?"
"Sofas are a purse."
"O.K. Bye then."
Last weekend, after 20 years of vigilance, I let my guard down. We were at an outdoor music fest and Jen said something about strolling over to a local shoe store, which I did not hear because like most men, I tune my wife out a lot of the time. Not to be mean; it's just we men have a limited cranial capacity for verbal input.
This, of course, is what Jen was counting on.
Before I knew it I was standing amid aisles of pumps, flats, sandals and espadrilles. Shoes?! I thought, too late. Shoes are a purse! (Insert echo effect, pull back to view the store from high in the sky.)
I slumped onto one of those sloped shoe-tying-on stools and weighed my options. I could make a break for the door, but I didn't like my odds. Jen had slipped into those ankle-high nylon footies stores provide, which have great traction. She'd take me down before I made it past the kitten heels.
In a civilized world, shoe stores would give men a waiting space. Men could then deposit themselves purgatorily in a corner of the store supplied with TVs. They could even be cardboard TVs, just something familiar a man could gaze at to pass the hours.
This is not a civilized world.
On my stool I pretended to play games on my phone, but I didn't have the heart. I had let myself get pursed. I had gotten soft. I wasn't the only one, either. Every other stool was festooned with a hollow-eyed guy pretending to play Tetris or Bubble Bash 2. Women circled around us doing test-walks of wedges, gladiator sandals, soccer slides.
I think I eventually made it out of there, but maybe it's like "The Matrix," and they just want me to believe I got out. I may still be there now. Yes, I fear I may well be permanently, irrevocably pursed.
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
For a woman, choosing a purse is like choosing a husband. Before deciding, she has to check each prospect's shape, flexibility, style and depth of pockets. Early on in our relationship I made the mistake of going purse-shopping with my now-wife. I could be wrong, but my memory is that it took four hours. It took so long, in fact, "a purse" became a shorthand term between us for any act which requires time-consuming and monotonous effort, i.e.:
"Want to come look at sofas with me?"
"Sofas are a purse."
"O.K. Bye then."
Last weekend, after 20 years of vigilance, I let my guard down. We were at an outdoor music fest and Jen said something about strolling over to a local shoe store, which I did not hear because like most men, I tune my wife out a lot of the time. Not to be mean; it's just we men have a limited cranial capacity for verbal input.
This, of course, is what Jen was counting on.
Before I knew it I was standing amid aisles of pumps, flats, sandals and espadrilles. Shoes?! I thought, too late. Shoes are a purse! (Insert echo effect, pull back to view the store from high in the sky.)
I slumped onto one of those sloped shoe-tying-on stools and weighed my options. I could make a break for the door, but I didn't like my odds. Jen had slipped into those ankle-high nylon footies stores provide, which have great traction. She'd take me down before I made it past the kitten heels.
In a civilized world, shoe stores would give men a waiting space. Men could then deposit themselves purgatorily in a corner of the store supplied with TVs. They could even be cardboard TVs, just something familiar a man could gaze at to pass the hours.
This is not a civilized world.
On my stool I pretended to play games on my phone, but I didn't have the heart. I had let myself get pursed. I had gotten soft. I wasn't the only one, either. Every other stool was festooned with a hollow-eyed guy pretending to play Tetris or Bubble Bash 2. Women circled around us doing test-walks of wedges, gladiator sandals, soccer slides.
I think I eventually made it out of there, but maybe it's like "The Matrix," and they just want me to believe I got out. I may still be there now. Yes, I fear I may well be permanently, irrevocably pursed.
Readers may contact George at george@georgewaters.net
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